


Votives

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-11
Updated: 2000-03-11
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Why did Ray Vecchio really accept that undercover assignment? And why on earth didn't he get in touch with Benny?





	Votives

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Votives  
  
by A. J. Dannehl  
  
Rating: PG (language)  
Pairings: none  
Season: before Call of the Wild  
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em (wish I did!). Only thing I get from this  
is fun and (hopefully) feedback.  
  
  
***  
  
**Votives  
**   
  
The tall man walked into his library, looking with quiet appreciation  
at the room's furnishings. In front of the native stone fireplace was  
a leather sofa flanked by two overstuffed easy chairs; these, along with  
a hand-woven Southwestern rug, created a comfortable little island for  
conversation, or for just watching flames dance in the fireplace. Artworks,  
the real things, not department store knock-offs, were on the walls or  
displayed on pedestals or shelves. Designer lamps were placed here and  
there, providing as much or as little light as suited his mood.  
  
The only light Armando Langoustini needed or wanted at that moment was  
provided by the PC  
monitor on his desk.  
  
Walking over and settling into the throne-like executive's chair, Armando  
smiled at the screensaver on his computer: a white Arctic wolf, loping  
gracefully across a crisp field of snow. Occasionally, the wolf would  
fling its virtual head back and howl; silently now, for Armando had  
turned the sound off after the first few times, finding it too depressing.  
As it was, he often found himself reluctant to enter the password that  
would switch off the scene.  
  
But it was Sunday night. On Sunday nights, he had a special task.  
  
Password entered, Langoustini pointed and clicked on Microsoft Works,  
calling up the word processing program. He chuckled slightly, thinking  
that for a complete technophobe, he was getting pretty damn good at this.  
Then, preparations complete, his mood sobered, and he began his task...  
  
  
  
  
Dear Benny,  
  
God, if only you knew how many times I wanted to just pick up a phone  
and call you! Just to listen to your voice, maybe hear another stupid  
Inuit story, find out how the Furball is doing...I miss it all. I miss  
you. You're the best friend a man could ever ask for.  
  
And that's why I haven't called.  
  
I can't risk it, Benny. I can't be a risk to _you_. You're too important  
to me. If any of these guys even thought that you knew what was going  
on, well, it wouldn't just be my life at stake. I knew that when I accepted  
this assignment. I can deal with that, even (no joke intended) live with  
it. What I couldn't live with is knowing that I put you in danger, maybe  
even got you killed. No way, Benny. As I told you once before about something  
else, not in this lifetime.  
  
You probably wondered why I took this job. You probably figured it was  
for my career. After all, I was always going on and on about the Vecchio  
career. Face it, if this thing works out, it'd be the smartest career  
move a loud-mouthed Chicago cop could have ever made. Damn, I'll probably  
get commendations out my ass, maybe even a promotion.  
  
Right now, I really don't give a fat rat's ass about my career.  
          
Right now, my main feeling is: _fuck_ my career. And fuck the mob,  
the Iguanas, the Feds... fuck them all. Especially the FBI. Fucking Bunch  
of Idiots. Do you know what those federal bastards said they'd do if  
I didn't cooperate with their little masquerade? Oh, they were real nice  
about it, said it was my decision, even. You want to know what I had  
to decide between? Taking this goddamned assignment, or having the Feds  
dig up some old shit on my father and link it to Ma. I'm not joking.  
Damn bastards showed me stuff they had made: pictures, documents, bank  
books, account numbers, letters. Benny, they stacked the deck against  
me (it's a _saying_ , Benny, look up what it means. Or ask someone.).  
It was all fake stuff, every bit of it, but it all looked real. And real  
believable.  
  
Tough choice, right?  
  
What else could I do, Benny? I had to do this. I couldn't put Ma through  
any of that. She put up with enough of Pop's shit when he was alive.  
She sure don't need any more of it now that he's dead. Even if none of  
it's real, she still don't deserve to go through what would happen. And  
you know what would happen. No matter what, someone would believe it,  
all of it. Even if no one did, there'd still be talk. You know it, I  
know it; the fucking Feds know it, too. Got to hand it to them, the sons  
of bitches are good at what they do. And Ma doesn't deserve to go through  
that. Neither does Frannie, or Maria and her kids. I had to take care  
of them. I have to take care of them. I always have and I always will.  
  
So, here I am, living in the lap of luxury. Best of everything: cars,  
clothes, entertainment. You should _see_ all this stuff, Benny!  
Remember that time when Zuko sent all that furniture and stuff to your  
apartment? Garage sale stuff, compared to what I have now. And, man,  
the night life! The night life here is unbelievable! Anything I could  
want, I get. Anything. Except for my real life. Except for my family.  
Except for you, the best friend I'll ever have.  
  
God, I'm getting maudlin here. I just want you to know I'm thinking of  
you, Benny, and that I miss you so damn bad. Think of me sometime, OK?  
And hope like I do that this nightmare will be over soon, and I'll be  
back, hauling you and the wolf around in the Riv, listening to you yak  
at me about stop signs and red lights and being courteous, you listening  
to me bitch about Dief stealing my donuts and shedding and everything  
else, and Dief in the back, probably laughing at us both.  
  
I miss you, buddy --  
  
  
  
  
Stretching in his chair, Armando looked at what he had written, reading  
it over twice. Satisfied , he slid the mouse on its pad, double-clicking  
on the "print" icon. He then carefully typed in the necessary  
commands, and sat back while the very expensive laser printer (the best  
on the market or off the back of a truck) did its thing. It didn't take  
long; it never did. He clicked to close the program, declining to save  
his document. Some things were best left private and personal, like a  
sinner's prayer.  
  


He looked at the letter and found himself still satisfied with the work. It looked good, nice font style (he had tried different ones but like "Ariel" best), good, heavy weight paper. Classy. Picking up his pen, enjoying the feel of the 24k gold barrel between his fingers, he signed the letter quickly, a small smile touching his hazel-green eyes. Running his hand lightly over the polished surface of the desk, he thought with only a little irony that both desk and chair cost almost as much as a Chicago detective's monthly salary.  |   |   |    
---|---|---|---  
  
  
Another stretch, this time throwing his whole body into it and adding  
a yawn as well. It was getting late. The monitor's light simply wasn't  
enough any more, but electric lights wouldn't do.  
Armando got up,  
letter in hand, and went over to the fireplace. On the mantel, hidden  
behind a group of candles in various wrought-iron holders, he found a  
box of long-stemmed matches. Striking one, he touched the flame to one  
of the candles, smiling as it sputtered and lit. He then waved the match  
so as to extinguish it and stood, eyes closed, breathing in the mixture  
of the candle's cinnamon scent and the match's faint sulfur fumes. Opening  
his eyes he read his letter through one more time by the candle's light,  
then, rolling it carefully into a long, cream-colored cylinder, held  
it to the flame, still smiling as the paper caught fire. One by one he  
lit the remainding candles, his lips moving silently as if in prayer.  
Once finished, he gently placed the burning paper in the fireplace and  
placed a few sticks of Georgia fatwood over it. He knelt silently and  
watched the flames dance to life, sending bits of ash aloft to the heavens.  
  
Footsteps sounded on the rock floor behind him, followed by the same  
protest he heard every Sunday night: "Mr. Armando! You know I could  
do that for you!"  
  
"That's OK, Nero," Armando Langoustini answered, rising. "Some  
things I kinda like to do myself, you know." He walked over to  
sit on the leather couch and watch his fire.  
  
Nero shook his head affectionately. "Your milk, Sir." The butler  
walked over and placed the glass on a table by his employer's arm. "Anything  
else, Mr. Armando?"  
  
"No, thanks, though," the man answered, not taking his eyes  
from the flames. "You go on to bed."  
  
"Goodnight, Sir."  
  
"'Night, Nero." Armando Langoustini listened closely until  
he could hear Nero's footsteps recede down the hall. Then, with firelight  
and candlelight glittering in his eyes, Ray Vecchio, his expression pensive,  
whispered his Sunday night benediction, "Good night, Benny. And  
be safe."  
  
  



End file.
